Sherlock's Secrets & the Running that Follows
by FanFicCity
Summary: The trail of an intriguing case suddenly leads Sherlock to an uncomfortably personal situation; one too close to his heart. It brings back memories he'd rather not revisit, as well as danger for the pair. John discovers, finally, what the haunted Detective had been up to for the cloaked 3 years that he'd spent 'dead'... and the consequences. *Slow update* :-)
1. Brooding

**Summary: **Sherlock and John are following the trail of a case that seems comparable to any other. Intriguing for the Consulting Detective, but somewhat unremarkable. Until, that is, the trail leads to a situation which is much too close to Sherlock's heart than he'd like. John discovers, finally, what Sherlock had been up to for those cloaked 3 years... and the consequences. The pair end up on a dangerous adventure to Serbia, where evil awaits.

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**A**/**N**- I'm a HUGE Sherlock fan, so, of course, had to write a fiction about it! I've only ever written for Charmed before...

This one only disregards events in 'His Last Vow'. It has no Johnlock, but a lot of _bromance_, as I love the pair as best friends! There's some romance elsewhere, too. And some very dangerous men from the time Sherlock spent as a tortured prisoner in Serbia, as well as other people from his hidden past. Action and emotion. Emotion first, though. The action will come later, I promise. At first it'll be slow-paced, to plz bear with! The story hots up, I swear!

If anyone is reading this (Timmy, I know you are!) please drop me a little review if you can with constructive criticism! :-)

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**Chapter 1:**

**Brooding**

With an ease so effortless it was almost eerie, Sherlock stroked the violin bow across the strings, which produced a dulcet, melodic tune that filled apartment 221B, Bakers Street. The tune perfectly framed the atmosphere of the room; mellow and endearingly dark. Uniquely decorated in a style that was a quirky take on classic, the apartment was like a stage for the worlds one and only Consulting Detective, on which he danced (although the man himself would gravely disagree that this imagery was suiting- with a smirk- as he was far above such dramatics). Sherlocks eyes were closed and a frown was etched faintly into his forehead. Because, of course, he was thinking. Why else would Sherlock Holmes play the violin? For the mere sake of it? Preposterous. Rarely, even, for the amusement of company. No. Even when composing for pleasure, Sherlock always had an ulterior motive for playing his violin, whether it be relaxation or a catalyst for his thoughts. On this occasion, it was definitely the latter.

John could tell Sherlock was thinking. It was the robotic movements that gave his purpose away; Sherlock swayed more fluidly when he played for relaxation. Funny that John knew that. Being heterosexual and all.

Frowning, John decided to worry about how he knew such intimate details about another man later. Instead, he worried about what Sherlock was thinking about. He shouldn't really, as his friend was a grown man, and a remarkable one at that. But John had to be concerned because: a) Sherlock only needed to _really_ think when he was on a case, which he currently wasn't, b) lately, Sherlock had been brooding and looking faraway a lot, and c) John had to live in his old apartment with this odd man for another two weeks, and the violin would surely wear on his nerves.

Placing down his newly brewed cup of tea, John tentatively wandered into the kitchen, not wanting to arouse Sherlock's suspicion. Leaning on the doorway frame, he lowered his chin to his neck cleared his throat loudly. Waited. No response. Sherlock continued to play his elegant masterpiece and dance with that odd frown on his face.

"Sherlock?" John stepped forward. "Penny for your thoughts?"

John regretted the patronising question immediately, and, by the looks of it, so did Sherlock. The man snapped his body around like a whip, and the music ceased. A dark eyebrow shot up.

"O-okay then. You don't want to talk. That's fine," John grumbled. "I was having a lot of fun chatting away to myself anyway."

Sighing, John span on his heel and stomped back into the kitchen. He had no idea why he bothered with that antisocial, pompous man. Best friend or no best friend, John had no obligation to care. He tried his hardest not to care at all that, since Sherlock had 'arisen from the grave' (which proved to John that he had a messiah complex), he had been... different.

Even after all these years, John knew that the old Sherlock didn't zone out nearly as much. And, even when he had, it had never been at such strange moments. Suddenly glaring at nothing whilst in the middle of a conversation- normal Sherlock behaviour. Quietly gazing out of the window when attention wasn't on him, as if day-dreaming- not normal Sherlock behaviour. John found himself wondering, yet again, what had happened to Sherlock during those three years that he'd been dead- what he'd gotten up to- to make him so brooding. Had it really been that bad?

But, whatever. John had, due to Sherlock's constantly rude mannerisms, decided not to care.

In the kitchen once again, John angrily attacked his tea with the spoon that'd been sat beside it. Grumbling to himself. Cursing Sherlock. Wondering why he cared about the man so damn much.

"You're not mad at me, John. You're just missing Mary a great deal." Sherlock called his statement breezily as he placed his violin down. John turned to scowl at the back of Sherlock's head and all those dark, tousled curls.

"What?" John huffed, "how'd you 'deduce' that one then, oh godly genius who's presence I quiver in?"

Sherlock straightened his back and stared innocently. "Well, isn't it Mary- not you- who takes her tea with sugar?"

John looked down in surprise at his cup of tea. Which he'd just stirred a generous heap of sugar into. Aghast, he stuttered and, finally, cursed.

"Try not to panic, John. I'm sure you can survive a mere fortnight without her. Consider that you did manage 30 years." Sherlock said as he strode into the kitchen.

"Yes, yes, I know. But, come on, what 'girls holiday' lasts 2 bloody weeks! I mean, a weekend is fine. A week? Perfectly normal. But what sane woman has a fortieth birthday bash in Ibiza for _2_ _weeks_?" John fumed, pouring his sugary tea down the sink.

"Yes, I do understand you completely. All that sun and sand... All those luminous, sweaty people jumping around in the dark, sliding against each other. It's disgusting. Comprehendible for celebration's sakes, but how much can one take?" Sherlock shivered at the picture he'd painted.

John continued to grumble to himself as he washed his mug to the point of dissolving: "I didn't know she even _had_ any girl friends, let alone one so close she'd invite her to I-bloomin'-biza!"

Sherlock tilted his head. "So, you see, this was never about me and what was on my mind. There was something on your mind." He said. He stared at John expectantly, getting closer.

_Oh, he wants to try talking now, does he? That's different._ John thought. "Hmm..." He mumbled, scrunching his lips together.

When John said nothing, Sherlock continued: "the peculiar circumstances, which you've just mentioned, surrounding your wife's sudden holiday are leading you to worry that it is something to do with her past, is that it?"

"Umm..." John shook his head, eyes dubious.

"Your eyes have been flicking to your phone all day; Mary can't call you from Ibiza, can she? Far too expensive. So you're waiting for another call. The police maybe?" Sherlock gave a sympathetic look. "You've really no idea what call you're waiting for. You just don't believe she is in Ibiza... That's what you're thinking."

John blinked. "I wasn't actually. I was just missing her! Do- do you think... She's up to something...?"

"... Oops." Sherlock grimaced. He tried to dig himself out. "No, John, I don't- I thought you did. But, erm... To make you feel better..." In truth, Sherlock had absolutely no idea how he could make John feel better; he'd be worrying his little head off now.

Breaking the silence (in which John fumed, smoke practically tumbling from his ears, and Sherlock stumbled over his words guiltily) a phone buzzed. Sherlock's phone.

"Oh joy, a case!" Sherlock declared. He jumped on the spot and skipped over to his phone which lay on the countertop.

"Well good. I'm glad someone's happy." John sulked.

Despite what his facial expression suggested, John didn't worry too much for Mary Watson. He had long stopped thinking of her as a helpless, innocent woman (if he ever had!) He knew Mary had a sensible head on her shoulders, and would never endanger herself while she was _avec_ baby bump! Mary, whilst carrying their baby girl, would stay safe. Sherlock, on the other hand... One could very easily panic about that unruly madman.

John watched Sherlock's unchanging expression until, in a few short seconds, he hung up the phone.

"That was Gordon." Sherlock said.

"Greg!" John corrected irritably.

"Of course it was, I just told you that." Sherlock replied, frowning, "he does have a little case for us. A murder case. He's in a room where he is positive the murderer was before the crime, except there are no fingerprints what-so-ever. Nothing to go on." Sherlock chuckled. "Poor man's stuck, bless his silly, unremarkable soul."

All of a sudden, the Consulting Detective raced from the room. "Oh... I guess we're going now, then!"

Sherlock appeared once again, now lavishly cloaked from neck to knee in his long, gloriously stylish coat of pure Irish wool.

"Yes. Unless... Are you doing anything more pressing currently? I guess you could have a second attempt at that tea while I'm gone." Smirking that knowing, crooked smirk- as was his habit- Sherlock sauntered from the room, the tail of his coat catching up seconds later like the trailing smoke from a firework.

For a few silent seconds, John stood awkwardly. Then, grinding his teeth, he cursed out loud and went to grab his jacket.

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Greg Lastrade hung up the phone with a swift _click_, and looked around the room in which he stood. Forensic scientists were swarming the excessively opulent room, scanning every microscopic detail of its lavishness. The man who'd once lived here, who was now deceased, had had an expensive taste. It was unfortunate that he'd been taken from such a wonderfully beautiful, homely little place, which he'd obviously worked hard at to make it look as stunning as this.

The scientists were clearly losing hope; in an hour, they'd found nothing of interest. They'd been ever so careful in their searching of all the things the suspect would have touched... Nothing.

Greg smiled as he thought how silly they would all feel when Sherlock Holmes walked into the room and stunned them into silence with his offhand deductions. Lestrade always felt proud to be stood next to Sherlock when he was fluently reading off his thoughts to the room.

One of the forensic teams men stood up, sighing in annoyance. "When's your quack coming then Lestrade?" He asked. _He's met Sherlock before_, Greg assumed correctly.

"Soon." Greg replied gruffly, "and he's not at all a 'quack', as you so respectfully put it. He's Sherlock Holmes."


	2. A Sorry State of Affairs

**A/N-** Really sorry for the horrible attempts at Sherlock's deductions. I know what you'll think: "but how'd the forensics miss the flipping safe?!" Ha ha! I tried, I really did! Again, apologies :-/

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**Chapter 2:**

**A Sorry State of Affairs**

Sherlock hopped out of the cab and face first into the frigid November air, grimacing a little, but not losing an ounce of his slick demeanour. John was... ahem... _glad_ to see that Sherlock wasn't _at_ _all_ daunted by the bill.

"No, don't stress, buddy. I'll get it!" Sighing, he handed the burly cab driver a small wad of notes, and the man gave him a sympathetic chuckle. John nodded and rolled his eyes in reply, heaving himself out of the cab and rushing after his friend.

The house that they were about to enter, directions to which Greg had given, was a stunning looking Victorian style home. Unlike houses of it's kind, which were usually out of place and decrepit, this one was grand, inspiring all as John entered its long shadow. Sherlock, however, didn't batt an eyelid- not even when the door was thrown open before he'd even reached it.

"Sherlock! Eager to arrive as ever. That took about five minutes!" D.I Lastrade marvelled.

"Really? Felt like 7." Sherlock brushed past the man unceremoniously and flew up the stairs.

"Felt like a million to me." John mumbled, smiling a little.

Greg laughed heartily at that, stretching a hand for John to shake, which he shook enthusiastically. Greg beamed at John.

"Mate, it's been much too long! Shame we've gotta keep meeting in these types of situations now-adays, eh?" Greg said, shaking his head of thinning, grey hair. It somehow suited him, and only added to his charm. His deep, husky voice helped, too. "At least when he was dead, we had a good excuse to socialise!"

He and John chuckled under their breaths, spitting and spluttering behind their hands, as they ascended the narrow stairs up to the room in question. When they got there, Sherlock was already flitting about with his little (funny looking, if you asked Greg) magnifying-glass, his expression showing his deep concentration. There were five forensic scientists in the room, and they were already packing up their multitude of equipment.

John looked around the warm, homely room. Themed a deep red colour, the walls and wallpaper were warm; it was a room that you could happily sink into if you wanted to forget there was an outside. Beautiful marble fireplace, thoughtfully furnished with a plush sofa and armchair. An antique looking coffee table sat before it, with a cold, uneaten breakfast plate on top, which was strange. The kitchen was off to the right, John could see by peering quickly.

"So what did the murderer do?" John asked Lestrade with interest.

"Erm, John... I don't know if you understand the phrase 'murdered' but it generally implies that..." Sherlock began.

"... Yes Sherlock, I know the murderer _murdered_ someone. I meant..." Exasperated, John looked at Greg for assistance.

"He shot the man who lived here. Lovely man, by all accounts- the victim that is! Family guy in his late fifties. Had kids, grand kids, a small business, used to love his a wife who passed away a couple of years ago... No-one can think of a motive. The killer was here not long before the shooting, which happened in a car-park by the victims Bentley." Lestrade told John and Sherlock, who had stopped and was stood silently.

"How do you know that the shooting wasn't random? How do you know it was the same person who was here that shot him? If there are no finger prints, I mean." John asked, a hint of a confused frown sat upon his forehead.

"Because of the gloves. Same material, am I right?" Sherlock asked two forensic scientists, who had been leaving quietly. One of them nodded their heads slowly, before the both of them left. One of them muttered 'weirdo', John was sure. He could have pushed them down those stairs.

"Yeh, that's right." Greg agreed. "Okay then mate, whatcha got?"

"Has this room been touched since the victim left it? I mean, as in, un-forensically touched." Sherlock asked.

"He never came back since the meeting between him and his killer. Killer maybe left around eleven in the morning; the neighbours heard the door slam. They say he left at half past, and never came back."

"Okay..." Sherlock mused, standing in a very much blasé fashion. "Well, your 'murderer', if that's what she is (although a matching glove isn't much to go on in my opinion) seems to be the victims pregnant daughter, and she's most likely recently gone abroad." He specified.

John was aghast for a second. That sounded like... No. It couldn't be... John looked at Sherlock, who was looking back at his friend with concern. They were both thinking the same thing. Surely not... That sounds a lot like Mary! John's heart began to race, among his chest ache painfully. This started a whole abundance of horrible effects. His palms were getting sweaty, his through constricting... He hoped he didn't pass out from shock and panic. Was this a panic attack?

Greg nodded thoughtfully.

"Okay, I'll bite. That's very specific, how'd you do it?" He asked, his voice light, but his face serious. He trusted this man to the end of the earth, for a reason unknown to him. Somehow, Sherlock Holmes assured Greg like no-one else ever could.

"Well, the fact that she is a girl is gathers by the type of glove. If the notes from the forensic team are right, I can only assume the gloves were women's fashion gloves. Also, why else would anyone wear gloves indoors? Yes. Woman's gloves, those ones that go up to the elbow probably. Those are quite aesthetically pleasing, even endearing, on a woman, don't you think..."

"Sherlock." John, out of habit, put Sherlock back on track. Listening to him had calmed Johns heart rate considerably. He was getting into the zone. The zone where Sherlock talked and talked and talked... And he listened.

"Ah. Yes. Then there's the fact that she is pregnant. Just a guess, really, but there's a plate of toast, bacon, beans and- most importantly- egg on the table. See these marks here on the carpet by the chair legs? She was trying to get as far away from that plate as possible, after she'd nibbled at everything but the eggs."

"So, she didn't like eggs!" Greg shrugged.

"Eggs are one of the first things pregnant women go off. Also, the crease in the chair, faint, but luckily it's a good, old chair. Small rear end, but quite a heavy load to still leave a mark."

"Sherlock!" John channeled Mrs Hudson for a second, exclaiming in disgust. Then he remembered that he was John Watson and he went back to listening. Breathing. Holding off panic.

"The victims daughter because?" John asked, eyes narrowed.

"Serving her breakfast? He's familiar, and..."

"The victim only had sons though Sherlock. I don't understand." Greg inquired.

Sherlock turned to glare daggers at Greg subtly. "I was getting to that."

Greg looked a little read. "Sorry. Do go on."

"So, familiar. Also, this photo here, in the frame above the mantle-piece. A photo of the victim in his youth, holding his children, his wife by his side. Observe as I pull it out. It's been ripped. A missing piece!" Sherlock holds up the photo and runs his sharp finger along the slightly tattered edge.

"Over here is a safe..." Sherlock said, rapidly flinging a picture from the wall to reveal just that; an old fashioned, rustic safe, with a newer, but very old, keypad.

"A safe!" Greg cried, shocked.

"Yes. I found a safe. Earlier Gregerson... Do keep up!" Sherlock entered the pass-phrase 1-2-3-4-5 into the ancient looking key-board. "Silly man, old fashioned key-board. Seriously dangerous. Keys 1 to 5 were the only ones that were at all worn!"

John and Greg intently watched Sherlock open the miniature door. He pulled out... A small, fraction of a photograph.

"Ha!" He called triumphantly, beaming in self-pride. His watchers, though they didn't show it, were equally impressed. Their lack of reaction acted as testament to their experience with the man.

All three men peered at the photo. Her arm, wrapped around her brother shoulder, was cut off, but you could see her. The picture wasn't of the clearest quality, but it was definitely a young, full-cheeked brunette girl with naturally pouting lips and dark lashes framing intense, yet beautiful looking eyes.

"As you will see, there is a dust print in the safe, indicating money once lay there. It's been stolen. Being a murderer with money, I can't think the girl would do anything but flee abroad." Sherlock stated, coming to a conclusion. "So, what was it I said when you asked me what I'd gathered? The victims pregnant daughter who has gone abroad? Hmm... I can't be sure, but I think this all adds up to that. From what I can tell scanning the room, there is no other deduction I could come to."

"Okay. Well, I'll take your word for it." Greg said happily, stepping back as if to say: my work here is done.

"Oh, and John." Sherlock leaned in to speak.

"I know." John practically read Sherlock's thoughts, and fought off the strong urge to hug him right there and then out of sheer joy and relief. "Whoever that girl is in the picture..." John began, but his words caught in his throat.

"She defiantly isn't your wife." Sherlock finished with conviction.

Sometimes, just sometimes, he wasn't a complete prat. In fact, just the opposite, John thought.

Greg, from across the room, smiled crookedly, and pointed at the armchair in which the woman had sat. "Can you tell me her exact weight?"

john stifled a giggle, fully expecting what was to come.

Sherlock looked flabbergasted for a second. He curiously gazed at the crease in the chair, then back at Greg, his hawk-like eyes narrowed. Tilted his head mockingly.

"Can you?" Sherlock asked seriously.

"Erm..." Greg shuffled on his feet. "No."

"No. Of course you bloody can't. Neither can I!" Sherlock span on his heel and slunk back over to the safe, further inspecting inside. Chuckling, slightly embarrassed, Greg shook his head in wonder.

"Alright, now we know who we're looking for, I'd better get to work. Thank you Sherlock. You're an absolute star." Greg began typing away at his phone as he spoke. "And, hey, some time in the week, us three have got to get together, eh? While Mrs Watson's away, we'll go on a bit of a lads night out. Sherl, would your Mrs Hudson let you out? Ha ha." Greg joked playfully.

Of course, Greg had only been kidding about Mrs Hudson, but Sherlock didn't reply. John watched him, unsure whether to be concerned, as his friend's eyes bore down on that fraction of a photograph, lost in his own thoughts.

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In the blazing hot Ibiza sun, Mary Watson led out, her gleaming legs stretched out upon the sun-bed luxuriously. Moaning with pleasure, she flung her arms behind her head, partly to rest her neck, and partly to give her arms a quick whoosh of air. The sun was merciless, but she loved it; craved it. Like any woman, her skin was hungry for the heat and light of the sun. Until, of course, she overheated, at which point she would simply take a quick dip, and then begin the lovely cycle over again... and again... and again and again and again.

Life is wonderful, isn't it my baby girl. I'll take you here when you're 15 so you can get the full experience, don't you worry, Mary telepathically spoke to her bump, rubbing it lovingly. She thought about getting some water to keep her baby hydrated. And some shade wouldn't hut either.

She became aware of her companion, who was led on the sun bed next to her. Mary slowly lifted her arms and stretched them out, before sliding her tanned legs over the side of the chair until she was stood up. Tentatively, she patted her friend on the shoulder.

"Honey? I'm going to get some water, d'you want some?" Mary asked.

When her friend didn't reply, she went ahead and sat on her sun bed, poking her, giggling, until she had her attention.

"Oh, I was having such lovely dreams of sun and free drinks... Oh... Wait..." The brunette woman, lightly rubbing her eyes, laughed as she remembered where they were. "On second thoughts... Thanks for waking me up. I would have forgotten we were even here. Forgotten you were here."

Mary sighed and gave her friend a hug, which she returned. "Bless you, Irene. You really do need a break, don't you? After all you've been through. And in your condition!" Mary patted her friends baby bump.

"You'd know the feeling!" Irene Adler laughed tunefully, sitting up and flicking back her thick, glossy hair. She, too, patted her own bulging baby bump, which was covered by a stylish black sash.

"You sit there, Irene, and don't move a muscle. I'll get you a water. Or I'll get that devilishly handsome pool-side waiter over there to get you a water, that would be much better!" Mary chuckled, feeling drunk on the sun.

As Mary left, Irene smiled after her. Once again, she thanked any god that may be in existence that she still had one friend whom she could call upon in her hour of need.

She sighed. As she did, she once again patted her stomach, quietly cooing at the baby somewhere inside.


	3. A Rather Rude Disturbance

**Chapter 3:**

**A Rather Rude Disturbance**

John watched Sherlock intently. He had been staring, with a wrath, down at the fraction of the photo of the girl (otherwise known as 'the murderer') for the past- John quickly read the clock in the apartment- three hours! They'd gone for lunch, and all the while Sherlock had been disturbed. What on earth had the man so spooked?

"Whatcha doing, Sherlock? You're eyes are gonna burn a hole in that photograph sooner or later." John said lightly, in good jest. "I can't believe you took that, anyway. We're going to have to return it.

Sherlock blinked a few times, and then disregarded the picture to the desk beside his armchair. Stretching out his sinewy limbs, he folded his legs over one another and pressed his palms together, before placing his fingertips lightly on his chin. His eyes centred on John.

"The girl in the photo." Sherlock began, "she reminds me of someone, that's all. Nothing to worry yourself about."

John shuffled his legs, spacing them out a bit for relaxation, and cleared his throat. He wasn't used to Sherlock discussing what was on his mind, and he found the conversation slightly unfamiliar.

"Who- who does she remind you of? And why would it..."

John was interrupted by Sherlock's phone buzzing. It wasn't a text buzz, or even an incoming call buzz. The phone was letting Sherlock know that there was a spoken message waiting for him on his mobile.

The two men shared a rather baffled look. "That's odd." Said John, watching with interest fascination as the consulting detectives eyes narrowed curiously.

Sherlock practically leapt from the seat, all gangly limbed, and whipped up the mobile in a swift movement much to quick for Johns eye, even though it was supposed to be trained.

Straightening his back confidently, Sherlock took the awaiting call, deciding not to be daunted by uncertainty even an ounce. He'd keep just enough fear to be careful, as always. Fear was a silly little hinderance in any great amount, but he'd long ago determined not to completely shut it off, as it could be an invaluable defence.

"_Sherlock Holmes,_" the heavily accented voice on the other end of the phone said. Sherlock immediately tensed. He struggled to hide his sudden terror. Without his having allowed it, the mans entire body went terrifyingly rigid as the nerves in his system froze up.

"Sherlock?" John saw his friends reaction to the caller, and his senses heightened to fully alert. "Sherlock, who is it?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was listening.

He knew it was a Serbian man who was speaking (or, more accurately, who had spoken). Sherlock had had to listen to them for long enough... Listen to them taunt him as they beat him mercilessly; they'd been _animals_, emotionless to his pain, as if it was just another day on the job. He'd met many friendly Serbian people in his life, but now the accent and language was forever ruined to his ear, as every time he heard it, he could taste blood, smell sweat, feel gut-wrenching pain...

"_We are seeing your partner right now... Looking at her. And Mary Watson also. We see them. And we will kill them._" The mans words came out fast, harrowingly nonchalant about discussing stalking and murder.

"Sherlock, what are they saying? What's wrong?!" John spoke hastily, beside himself. Sherlock waved a hand to demand silence.

"_We want you. Or, specific, he wants you. We will trust you to come to Heathrow Airport alone tonight, in the evening of six, and we will be there to meet you and escort you back to Serbia_." The man was threatening here, his voice deepening, "_if you do not do as I have said, your woman and baby- and your friends woman and baby- will never return home_."

Sherlock blinked. Hard.

"My woman and _what_?!" Sherlock cried.

"Your _what_?" John cried. What an interesting day this was shaping up to be.

Sherlock so wished the man were actually on the phone so he could scream out all the curses and causation sunder the sun; demand he told him what the hell he meant!

"_Your pretty woman- we will cut her baby out of her while she breathes, unless you do as we say. Six, tonight, Heathrow airport. We are watching you, Sherlock Holmes."_

Sherlock slowly brought the phone from his paler-than-usual cheek. He looked at John's equally ghostly pale, stricken face. Before John could yell his unadulterated fury (which he no doubt would in a few seconds, once he gathered himself, Sherlock determined) Sherlock held up his hands and grimaced slightly.

"We may have an... erm... A trivial dilemma on our hands." Sherlock admitted, still shaken. "And when I say trivial, I mean possibly life-threatening and undoubtably dangerous."

John stuttered for a second, unable to form words that would meet the air.

"You..." He managed, face scrunched up painfully. "You have a woman?"

"That's what you chose to pick up from that one-sided discourse? Honestly John..." Sherlock trailed off, staring hard at the phone in his hand, not really seeing it. He was seeing someplace dark and dank. He was feeling the cold pull of chains against his wrists and hearing them grind loudly as his body spasmed in agony. And he was thinking of Mary and her baby girl- John's baby girl- and... and...

"... Sherlock! _Sherlock_!" John was suddenly stood right in front of his friends face, immensely distressed, and his hand was gripping Sherlock's arm with a force. "I said what's wrong, Sherlock? For God's sakes, talk to me! Who the _hell_ was that and what did he say?"

Sherlock came back to himself. He was suddenly painfully humiliated. Never had he ever lost his cool so ungracefully! Then, all so a sudden, he was urgent.

"John... Tell me the time!" Sherlock insisted.

"I- It's gone six. Just over quarter past. Why, Sherlock, what does that matter? Sherlock?" John pressed, but the consulting detective abruptly came to life.

Nimbly, Sherlock vaulted to the tall window and, concealing himself behind the drapes, peered out. As his eyes scanned the street, his face muscles seemed to melt in despair.

"John, we've a problem. An immediate one I mean... I don't know how long we have..." Sherlock never finished his sentence.

The events that occurred next happened so fast that, later, John wouldn't to be able to recall a single detail.

Sherlock and John's heads snapped to the door. They could hear a scuffle going on in the stairwell... And that was when the door was thrown open. Four men, dressed casually but with faces twisted gravely, betraying their evil intentions, burst uninvited into the apartment. They were monstrously sized, their muscles ridiculously mountainous, striped with sinisterly snake-like veins; all four didn't hesitate to pounce, fists clenched, upon the two unprepared men.

Sherlock spurred into action. As a man lunged for a punch to the ribs, Sherlock swiftly brought up a leg. The limb whacked the Serbian in the gut, and he went down. There was no celebration, however, for another burly attacker was instantly on top of Sherlock- literally! He crushed the considerably lighter man to the ground with pure brute force and his body mass. John heard a crunch and Sherlock's muffled groan as he was forced to face-plant the wooden floor.

John had been rooted to the spot in terror. His vision had slowed down, and he watched, mouth dry, as his friend was ruthlessly attacked. He was next.

The other two men closed in, animals on their prey. They were fast. But so was John. He'd blindly and unconsciously searched out for something- anything- he could use as a weapon. As he struck out, something hard made a blood-curdling crack as it whacked an attackers temple like a brick. John stared at the blooded object in his hand. The skull! He knew there was a reason that Sherlock loved this ugly thing!

The man on the floor was out for the count, and John was soon contending with another. Not at all shy of a fight, the man grabbed John by the hair. John knew exactly what to do. His twist-and-hold move would work. But as John went to twist, his body became trapped painfully in the mass of muscle that held him. That pressed against his throat. Tightly.

John could have laughed at how absurdly fast their situation had gone from calm to... this! John could smell the Serbian's foul body odour.

"You listen to me." John looked up, dazed, from his position in this vice of a headlock.

"Wha- Ggghh..." Whatever John had wanted to say, it was impossible. He was choking. He could see Sherlock wasn't in much better shape, with a bruised and bloodied forehead and split lip, being propped up harshly by to ad his attackers. John could tell, through his disorientation born of lack of air, that Sherlock was concussed. Pretty badly, John thought, noticing the way Sherlock's eyes seemed to roll and his stance was that of a drunk mans.

An attacker with ghastly bleached blond hair, which stood out grotesquely next to his severely sun-bleached skin, smirked at John. He groaned for air.

"You be quiet. I speak. To you," the Serbian said to John, then turning to Sherlock, "and to you. Sherlock Holmes. You failed to follow our instructions. Now we will take you by force. Our companion downstairs is preparing a gun. You will do as we say and not call out, make a fuss in any way."

"For _God's_ _sakes_, you're _suffocating_ him you bloody great oaf!" Sherlock spat in blood-red fury. John tried to nod his resounding agreement.

The bleach-blond man sighed, rolling his empty eyes in annoyance. He spat a command in his mother-tongue, and John was cruelly dropped to the floor.

"Why... the hell... would we go _anywhere_ with you!" John coughed, his face scrunching into a wince. "Apart from the fact you have a gun, I mean..."

"Your women are in danger still. You mess up, we kill them first. Get up." John quietly cursed the man as he struggled to his feet. His arm was grabbed ruthlessly.

"You alright?" Sherlock asked quickly, before he was tugged, practically dragged off of his unsteady feet from the room.

"Yes... Where are you going? Where are they going? He's concussed, you can't just throw him around like that! _Where is he going!?_" John cried, distressed.

"We, my friend. We are going to the airport and taking a trip. You will look natural and draw no attention. Or you and your ladies will have no hope."

_Oh God, Mary. And the baby! Oh God, oh God, oh God._.. Johns mind was in turmoil. He only briefly wondered who Sherlock's lady could possibly be. _Mary, Mary and my child are being watched right now. She has no idea what danger she's in!_

"Come. We go now. Remember all that I have said." Ugly bleach guy followed Sherlock's captors from the room.

In a matter of minutes, John and Sherlock had been taken from the safety of apartment 221B and were journeying, against their own will, into the unknown.


	4. The Madman on the Plane

**A/N- **Thanks so much to those who have followed and are reading ect. I'm so glad you're having a read! It's also given me the chance to discover some new authors. Also, now that school is starting again, I'm sorry but I might upload quite slow. GCSE's you see. Slightly terrified...

If you've time, please drop me a quick little review :-)

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**Chapter 4:**

**The Madman on the Plane**

Things had gotten to be very bad, very quickly. The two men had been roughly and thoroughly frisked and their things- including mobile phones- confiscated, so that they were well and truly at the mercy of their captors. Then they'd been roughly bundled into a taxi, and had set off on their journey from which there seemed no turning back.

John hated the dangerously uncertain, awkward atmosphere that was so thick he could practically taste it; the feeling it gave him sent goose-bums flaming up his skin like a rash. But what John hated most about their situation, much more than the atmosphere and the not knowing, was Sherlock's condition. He didn't look awful, but he looked definitely in pain, and his forehead had swollen so that it looked as if his hair were strewn across a rotting apple. He'd begged the men to give him some ibuprofen, at which point one of the Serbians in the back of the taxi with them, who's eyes were hidden from John under thick, dark shades, produced some paracetamol.

"God no, not that! That's a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug, that'll make him bleed like hell on earth!" John had cried, whipping the evil pack away. He asked (or yelled) how they expected to walk him through an airport in the state he was in.

"We will use dis." Sunglasses pulled out a small piece of material from his jacket pocket. Sherlock's deerstalker hat.

Sherlock was roused from his plastic-like state for long enough to utter "Will I never be free of that bloody hat!"

John was still distressingly unknowing about why they were in this situation- but he bet Sherlock knew why. On the phone, Sherlock had frozen, seemingly forcibly lurched far back into this memory; further back than he'd ever let John. If Sherlock's mind was so messed up, John knew he had major reason to be paralysed in fear.

It was dark by the time their taxi (which John now supposed was stolen) drove up outside Heathrow. The colossal building was lit up, and the glass tower looked imposing to John, knowing that it would be the last familiar place they saw for the foreseeable future. Inside, John made out figures fleeting here and there, hurriedly going about their normal evening business. Oh how John envied them their human worries.

The Serbian by Sherlock set his eyes firmly on the two. "Okay, how it goes is: you two walk, we each have gun. We will use if you run. You be sneaky, our friend here send message to have your women shot. We on level?" After one look at his boulder arms, John nodded. Sherlock didn't seem to hear. Sunglasses opened the door. "Out."

John slid out, guiding Sherlock as he did so. As bleach head and the other one (he had no distinguishable features, and John didn't care in the slightest whether he had a name or not) hopped out, they all walked to the pavement and watched as the taxi was driven away by the fourth Serbian. Well, John thought, this is it. No turning back. Looks like we're really going on holiday.

"Uh, Bojan, here." Said Sunglasses to bleach-head. Sunglasses was cautiously pointing at Sherlock, whose eyes were rolling into the back of his head.

Before John could lurch forward and catch him, Sherlock, his knees giving way, crumpled into Sunglasses unprepared body; the two became entangled as they writhed around on the pavement.

Bojan- bleach head- whatever- frantically mimed a yell of fury, a vein popping out of his forehead, as he scanned his surroundings for people. Thankfully for him, they were scarce.

John ran forward, cursing indignantly as he grabbed into the tangle that Sherlock and Sunglasses had become. With his ridiculous strength, Sunglasses brushed off Sherlock like he was dust on his coat, sending the semi-conscious man sprawling to the floor. He lay there motionless, John hovering above him in disbelief.

"Oh God, Sherlock?" John said close to his friends ear. "I told you bunch of idiots that he needed attention!"

John placed a hand tentatively on Sherlock's face, careful to avoid the horrible looking bump. Then, he gasped. Sherlock's eyes were wide open. As soon as they made contact with John's, Sherlock gave an audacious wink. John recoiled, dumbfounded. He was alright? He'd _faked_ it!

"Hurry _hurry_!" Bojan called impetuously, looking as if he were about to implode all over the glass of the airport. The man had the audacity to hand John Sherlock's deerstalker hat, which John took gradually. He felt as if he were floating; as if he were in a dream.

"Ugh... Yes, yes, we're coming." John said, hoisting Sherlock up by his arm. To John's surprise, although Sherlock seemed to tumble and struggle, really, he was making it easy for John, not giving him too much of his body weight. Acting. Brilliant! John had no idea why, but brilliant! It at least meant he had a plan. Additionally, it meant he was okay (or as okay as he could be with that lump on his head). He placed the deerstalker on Sherlock's head.

* * *

It was an odd sensation, to leave the dark and the cold and enter the extensive glaring light. Under it, a couple dozen people buzzed around, trailing along suitcases behind them. Around this time there were many individual businessmen and women racing around the floor; the rolling of the wheels of their suitcases sounded alien to John, as did most sounds. That was an effect of being in an alien situation. Everything else seemed distant and foreign: families bustled by John, and their tired whines and loud, theatrical cries of pain from the sudden English cold sounding faraway; the chiming, happy voice of a woman informing of flight dates went straight through Johns ears; even Sherlock, resting slightly against his shoulder, felt like air.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped and wouldn't go any further. The Serbians halted too.

"I- I think I'm going to..." Sherlock's body convulsed as he choked and pressed a palm against his mouth, cheeks flushing red.

Their three escorts looked conflicted.

"Let me take him to the toilets." John said, motioning to the arrow pointing them out overhead. The Serbians were uncertain still. "For God's sakes, you took everything from us! I _have_ to take him or we'll cause a scene!"

Bojan shuffled his massive, muscular body-weight, before giving a firm nod. Relieved, John took Sherlock and they raced to the toilets, Sherlock picking up speed as they ran further and further from the crazed, restricting eyes of their captors.

Stumbling into the men's room, John clutched his head into his hands and scrunched up his eyes, willing everything all away. His world was spinning. The plush bathroom with it's polished marble and sensory taps could have been the furnace of hell for all he knew; this was madness!

"Oh God Sherlock, oh _God_! What the _hell_ do those men want with us!? Why are we _in_ this situation?" John yelled at Sherlock, who was typing away at the phone that he'd pick-pocketed out of sunglasses jacket as he'd collapsed onto him. John had guessed as much. The fake faint and swipe. Classic.

"They are the Serbian strand of Moriarty's network. I thought I'd taken them down. It took me so long and... I sacrificed so much to take destroy them but..." Sherlock, still typing away, shook his head dismally. "They're obviously still up and running. And Baron Maupertuis must still have a bone to pick with me. Can't think why he'd bother, but we'll panic about that later."

"Sherlock, what exactly did you do in Serbia?" John asked, still hunched over, breathing deeply.

Sherlock groaned. "Why do we have to... Okay. I spent a considerable amount of time attempting to disassemble the remains of the network that, after Moriarty's death, was still functioning. It was hard work, but I did it. Or, at least, I thought I had. Clearly not. If they're organised to do this, sloppy as this pick-up is, they've recovered. Still, I've no idea what they want from me. Or why you're here. No offence."

"None taken whatsoever. To tell you the truth, I'd rather not be here. Urgh, Sherlock, sooner or later I'm going to get specific answers from you, even if I have to tourtière you for them!"

Sherlock flinched unconsciously. He closed his eyes and took a breath. John noticed, and thought it odd.

"Figur of speech." John explained. Oh, he was so confused... So much information was hitting him all at once, he couldn't process it!

He stretched up, rubbing his hands together to calm his nerves. He found that staring at Sherlock's fingers as the whizzed across the phone's keyboard was strangely therapeutic; the lean fingers flew in a way that was magnetic and calming. "What are you doing? Can't you just call the police?"

"Of course not. Definitely not. I call the police and they come in guns blazing, Mary is dead. If I tell anyone to come help us, they give word out to shoot her on sight. No, I'm sending Lestrade a long text detailing our predicament and giving him instructions as to how he can help."

"Oh." John breathed. Then, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at John closely and intently as way of a reply, his deep-set eyes smouldering with severity. John wasn't sure what to say. He'd so many questions. He started with what he considers the most baffling.

"They are threatening two women. Mary and... your woman? Who is she and why do they think she is close to you. What... What makes them think you would die for her?"

John's words had affected Sherlock. As soon as John inquired, Sherlock's state drifted away, even though his eyes hadn't shifted a bit; he was zoning out again. Spontaneously drifting off to some dark recess of his memory, that place he wouldn't let John see.

Footsteps. The atmosphere shifted without warning. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened as if his body had been taken over. In that very second, Sherlock pounced onto John, encasing the doctors body in his. Before John could stutter a proclamation, he was bustled into a toilet cubicle and pressed hard against the wall, sandwiched between that and Sherlock's slight frame. Sherlock slammed a hand forcefully against Johns lips, stifling his cries, and pointed to the door. John, ignoring his lack of pride, listened.

"What takes you so long in there?"

Bojan. He'd come to check on them. Eyes darting around, John began to panic; he shot Sherlock a frantic look: _what the hell do we do?!_

In reply, Sherlock made some loud, harrowing puking noises. He choked, practically spitting on John who was inches away. Between coughs, he nodded at John. _Play along!_

"Oh... Oh dear Sherlock. Erm, let it all out mate. That's it buddy..." John encouraged awkwardly. Sherlock stared at him, eyebrow sky-high, unimpressed. John shrugged desperately.

"Hurry, hurry. We're waiting outside." A pause. He was probably checking for listeners. "You know what happens if you stray. Bloodshed."

Sherlock and John listened as the heavy, clattering footsteps faded around the corner. John let a shaky breath go.

"What now?" John hissed.

"Give Greg a few minutes." Sherlock said, pressing his temples. A killer of a headache was creeping up on him. "Let's pray he's got an idea. It better be a good one, too."

* * *

"I'm so glad you shaved. You looked like a bloody tramp!" Sally Donavan didn't beat around the bush to tell Anderson how much she preferred him clean-shaven. She giggled into her pint at the image of all that shaggy fur on his face.

"I do feel quite a bit freer. Greg, what's your opinion? Facial hair or no facial hair?" He asked, stroking his face thoughtfully.

The three were sharing a pint and a word or two in the pub while they had a quick break from work. Lestrade, upon being questioned by Anderson, loaded his ammo to tell the guy just how ghastly he had looked before. Like a madman! Which, to be honest, he had been. Sherlock's staged death had messed him up bad, like it had everyone else; he'd been plagued by guilt. Lestrade was thankful Anderson was back on his feet. Glad that Sherlock had resurfaced: it'd made everything better.

He was seconds away from proclaiming Anderson an ex-tramp, when his phone buzzed.

"Hang on, will you?" He said, reaching into his pocket.

"I already know what you're going to say. No-one liked my hair! I mean, I can see why, but you'd think one person, at least, would..."

"Shh! Shut up a minute!" Lestrade demanded, uncharacteristically harsh. Anderson pouted. Donavan shot Lestrade, who was engrossed in his phone with his brows knitted tightly, a look.

"What's up, grumpy?" She asked, frowning.

Lestrade's face slowly melted into an expression of disbelief. He shook his head slowly. "You're not going to believe this."

"What?" The two officers spoke at once.

"Guys... Do either of you have any influence- communications- at Heathrow airport?" He asked seriously. His companions looked baffled.

"Umm... I might do. Why" Donavan replied.

"And you fight alright?" He made sure to ask.

Anderson and Donavan were pretty interested now. Their eyes were locked, unflinchingly, on Lestrade.

"We'll pick up a thing or two from the lab, and then..." He looked at his companions with narrowed, serious eyes, "I need your help to pull off something pretty extreme."

* * *

John was beginning to be repulsed by Sherlock's head wound, which was disturbingly close to his face. The thing was no longer covers by the hat; John had insisted Sherlock get some air to it. He'd also insisted he sit down and take it easy, which was how Sherlock ended up sitting on the toilet seat, John knelt awkwardly beside him. He could think of a million ways he'd rather be spending his Sunday evening.

Seconds passed. Then, footsteps loomed. John braced himself, gathering his nerves. They would have to go now; there was no way they could possibly procrastinate any longer.

Before Bojan could begin yelling, John opened the cubical. He and Sherlock, deerstalker once again covering his unsightly head wound, came from the toilet. If looks could kill, the menacing glare that Bojan had on his face would have shot both men dead on the spot.

"We go. _Now_! No more of this..." He waved, as if swatting a fly, pressing his lips in annoyance.

Disdainfully, Sherlock and John followed the Serbian, who walked with a vengeance. As they passed his companions, Sunglasses walked alongside Bojan. Sherlock made a little show of stumbling and getting disorientated in order to slip back Sunglasses' phone (the battery of which Sherlock had spat on to break it). He didn't appreciate the attention; he shoved Sherlock away as if he were disease ridden. The other Serbian fell into step behind Sherlock and John, with distance enough between them for it to look natural. John scowled. This was absolutely sick.

It felt like sleepwalking, going through customs. John smiled and played his part, while Sherlock was silent and cold, his head kept low. No-one noticed anything strange about the duo; why would they? They were the perfect actors.

Soon, they were in the queue to board the plane. The Serbian men were no-where to be seen, stood in the line else-where, but John could feel their presence, feel the burning of their eyes on this skin.

"So, what exactly are we to expect from Greg here, Sherlock?" John asked subtly, careful to not look at his friend. Keep staring forward. Keep still.

"Not a clue." Sherlock replied breezily.

John could have punch his friend, battered as he already was. He never got the chance. The queue suddenly surged forward.

The plane entrance loomed. John nodded his thanks to the attendant with the bright red lips, who didn't notice the animal fear in his eye. The men were caught in the flow of the stream of people as they walked down the clinically white runway and stepped cautiously into the plane. John could hear the air outside whipping around his head for a second, until he was fully encased in the giant flung machine. Or cage.

Bodies bumped against bodies in the rush to get to your seat before you got his by a nonchalantly flung piece of luggage. John and Sherlock shuffled to their seats and fell back into them. The preposterously overweight man sat next to Sherlock gave the detectives deerstalker a weary look, probably wondering if the man were mad. Sherlock smiled devilishly, his cheekbones on top form.

"Cool, isn't it!" He said winningly. The man, giving a loathing look, shuffled his immense body weight to gave the other way.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. No-one had a taste for ironic humour these days.

This was it. Voices were calm and subdued on the plane. To John, who's hope of rescue had been well and truly stifled, everything seemed a little too calm; probably because his heart was racing, so it seemed odd that no-one else was in such a state of panic. John was staring at his ticket, but looking straight through it. Like it was his death sentence on paper. Hot tears pierced his eyes as he thought of his wife.

"Calm your nerves, John, we'll be alright. I trust Greg. He's an intelligent man; loyal, too. He won't let us down." Sherlock reassured. His words surprised John. He had no idea he held their friend in such high regard. "Anyway, _I_ gave him clear, helpful information. And you- undoubtably- trust _me_, of course."

"Ha. Funny. I trust _Greg_! You, I'm not so sure about." John chuckled. Sherlock feigned taking offence, pouting his lips ever so slightly. But he seemed to take some pain from the movement. Noticing this, John asked: "How's your head?"

"Absolutely fine." Sherlock said, but the minor grimace that curled onto his face betrayed his discomfort.

"I would've put ice on it. We'll take you to A&E as soon as we get out of this mess. If we do."

Sherlock sighed loudly. "We already talked about this. We are getting out of this mess. Really, John, it's like you have no faith in me whatsoever."

"Mhhh... Well, I've got no reason to have faith in you. All these secrets you're hiding."

Oh damn. He shouldn't have said that. John could, once again, see the emotion dancing on Sherlock's face; no one else, not even someone staring right at him, would have noticed, but by now John had a trained eye. In a way, the emotions humanised Sherlock, but John didn't know if he liked this or not. Before, Sherlock was aloof and untouchable; the humans below him felt and agonised, they could be broken by the world a million times over, and still be pummeled as they attempted to stand back up. Somehow, Sherlock had lost that power that made him unfeeling and kept him emotionally aloft. Sherlock had become touchable- breakable. John worried for him.

The voice overhead told them that departure was in 10 minutes approximately. John caught sight of Bojan a few seats away. His eyes were closed and his head rested, lead back. The pure personification of serenity. Bastard.

Then, without warning, the plane doors opened. An enormous burst of air and buzzes from the machinery in the outside word loudly announced the arrival of three men dressed entirely in white uniforms. An atmosphere of uneasiness settled. One of the men, large and black, professional looking with a throaty voice stepped forwards.

"We've been informed that there..." He began, but a flight attendant interrupted.

"Yes yes, we were told," she hissed quietly. "But it's preposterous. It's been decided that we're continuing with the flight."

"Nuh ugh, no you're not. Not yet. We've been instructed to take action fast." He turned to the passengers and clapped his hands loudly. "_Listen up everyone! _We have reason to believe that there is a _madman_ on this plane; a clinicall insane _mass_ _murderer_. And we believe him to be _armed_. Everyone needs to stay calm..."

No chance. The crowd on the plane, who had settled into their quiet chit-chat, suddenly became riotous in their tone of voice. A cacophony of cries and panic stricken calls to companions suddenly stifled the already heated air of the plane.

"It's _him_. Sir, we need you to come with us calmly, without panicking anyone." The man was pointing straight at Sherlock.

"Me?" He said innocently.

John stifled a giggle. Then, an idea struck him: "by God, he is a madman... I- I see a gun! _My lord above, __**he's got a gun!**_" John made a fuss of standing up and falling about in terror, stumbling into other passengers.

His words had the desired effect. All of a sudden, a full on riot had begun. People were lurching about the plane, regardless of who they crushed, to get to the isle, where, already, a tight crowd of people was wading through. The sea of calling, crying, _screaming_ bodies was suffocating- and amazing! John grabbed the opportunity by the horns. There was no sign of the Serbians.

"Bojan, where are you!" John made sure to call out loudly. He didn't want him thinking he'd dare run. Mary's life depended on it. No, this was going to be a little accident.

John hurled himself bodily into the surging crowd, turning only to see if Sherlock was following; the skinnier man slunk smoothly between bodies, passing through the panic like a phantom. He'd soon overtaken John and was heaving him along at his own fast pace. John scrunched up his eyes as his face was pressed into a million-and-one heavily coated arms and even into some other faces. He got a few harrowing earfuls of high-pitched screams.

When he opened his eyes, they were outside, racing away from the plane as fast as the crowd would allow (which was pretty fast, as they were petrified). The only problem was, what to do now.

"Sherlock!" John cried, coming to a halt.

His friend turned sharply, questioning harshly with his eyes. John shook his head furiously, eyes crazily wide "Sherlock, we can't run. _Mary_!"

Sherlock's face dropped with realisation. Dozens of people rushed past them, whacking his shoulders. One hit particularly hard and Sherlock, to John's surprise, fell instantly to the ground. John waited for him to get to his feet, but he stayed ton his knees, swaying, allowing people to crush him as they ruthlessly billowed past. Sherlock collapsed further and further with the punches.

"_Sherlock_!" Above the ruckus, John yelled.

He fought through the bodies that whacked him to get to Sherlock's level. He was on his knees clutching his head, his lips pressed so tight they'd lost all colour. The stress to mind and body was having a hellish affect on his concussion. He was fading. John tried to shield Sherlock with his own body, but the crowds just kept on coming. Battering them like stones in a mercilessly powerful river.

That wasn't even the worst of it. John hazarded a look behind his shoulder and his throat immediately constricted. _Bojan and Sunglasses._ And the other one. Surging down the isle like freight trains.

John was suddenly aware of Sherlock's tightly straining body going limp. He'd passed out. John swore. His friend crumpled onto Johns lap, who tugged him tightly into a protective embrace.

John considered praying, but quickly disregarded the idea. Instead he muttered: "Oh crap."


	5. Rescue and Ransom

**A/N- **Okay, so in this chapter, at the end, I kinda get to the main plot. Took me a while, I know. This one got away from me. I don't even know how this stuff happened!

Thnks for reading,

:-)

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**Chapter 5:**

**Rescue and Ransom**

Irene could have sworn that the barman was giving her the eye. He _was_, she was sure of it. As the bronze skinned, cheekily confident bachelor raised his dark, sexily untamed eyebrows her way, Irene Adler played the game that had become so natural to her; she draped on her enduringly elegant and playful persona like a comfortable shawl, and moved her face at the perfect angle. The sun caught her cheekbones just right, and she knew she was practically glowing. Elbows on the table. People had a misconception that it was somehow rude of offensive to place your elbows on the table.

"But you just ignore those sexually stunted fools, Irene." Her mother had told her, sweeping her hair from her eyes to star encouragingly into Irene's. "A woman placing her elbows on the table is not only an action of defiance in the face of gender confinements, but it's seductive. Never let any woman tell you to take your elbows from the table."

How right her mother had been. The barman, holding a coca cola out to a woman at arms-length, stared as if transfixed, smiling widely, intoxicated. Irene loved the attention, if only soaking it up for an ego-boost.

Mary suddenly popped into view, stumbling over her many shopping bags, which were filled with the inexpensive luxuries of Ibiza.

"Oh... I'm not going to make it!" Mary giggled, stumbling.

"Let me, you clumsy woman!" Irene smiled as she stood to help her friend sit down. She did, and plonked her bags on the various chairs beside her, squinting from the sun.

"Thanks honey. You won't believe what I have nought, and how much I payed! John will applauded me my shopping smarts!" Mary proceeded to showing Irene her new gear.

But her friend was distracted. As Irene sat, she noticed the barman. Or, more specifically, the back of his head. Avoiding her eyes.

She knew it. One look at her baby bump, and he wasn't interested. Who even gave a damn? He wasn't even her type! Much too egoistic and shallow. Nothing like the man she'd become familiar to calling hers...

Irene bowed her head, not tears suddenly stinging her eyes. She was careful not to let Mary see. She'd comforted her enough. Irene wouldn't want her old friend feeling worse for her.

"... And this buy, I'm especially proud of- oh! My phone!" Mary said, taking her mobile from her pocket. "Wouldn't be my cheap husband- he'd never pay the texting cost."

Irene smiled, remembering John Watson. They'd met fleetingly, and Irene hadn't taken notice (her attention had been elsewhere) but she remembered him fondly. She'd no idea her best friend would end up with him. Fate worked in mysterious and inexplicable ways!

"That's odd. It's Greg Lestrade." Mary said, frowning. Irene leaned in to listen, curious. "He says that Sherlock wants me to know that I have to watch my back. Huh... That's odd."

The two women looked at each other, seemingly weary and innocent. But they both knew that, if need be, they could take care of themselves just fine.

* * *

_Back in Britain..._

* * *

John was terrified. Cornered, powerless, while his friend lay bleeding before him. He watched, rooted to the spot where he sat, as Bojan and Sunglasses approached, viciously, murderously bulldozing their way through the turbulent crowd. People shrieked, terrified, as the men passed. They were seconds away.

Sherlock was out of it. John held his limp body close, screaming his name, protecting as best he could, but he couldn't keep people brutally kicking as they went by.

"_Watch ou- Hey! Be careful... He's hurt! Anyone..._?!" John's voice was lost on the selfish horde, who just kept ploughing their path to freedom. Heedless! John could have weeped. Instead, he cradled his friend, who remained unresponsive, his eyes only opened an inch, revealing to John some un-reassuring blood-shit white. Maybe Sherlock was wake up if he'd been in better condition anyway, but the man way constantly malnourished and half exhausted. John cursed him blind as he lay.

They were coming. The Serbians. They were practically on top of him! He couldn't save his best friend, or himself, or his wife! Sherlock had to wake up... He _had_ to. He always came through! Always!

_Not this time_, thought John. _This is my failure. All the times he's saved me, and I can't even protect being kicked by a stupid crowd of people!_

Finally, he gave up. Rolled with the punches, painful as they were. Encased Sherlock. John closed his eyes.

"Everybody _move, __**move MOVE**_**!**!"

Bojan? No... _Lestrade_! The fearless, commanding voice of Lestrade!

John watched as Greg Lestrade galloped down the plane isle, pushing through the crowds with the dauntless skill of a warrior. Although, the gun in his hands did help. People took one look and scattered.

Bojan's eyes went wide. In his shock, he collided with dozens of fleeing people, Sunglasses included. The bunch of them became a writhing, bodily mass. Bojan's loud grunts and screams could be heard as he clawed and fought wrathfully, to no avail.

Air rushed past Johns ears as Anderson whizzed past, jumping into the masses. Greg and Anderson fought, trying hard not to hurt innocent plane-goers, but bloodthirsty for the Serbian scum's throats. Snarling something fierce, the two men grabbed for John and Sherlock's captors. Their fury was personal.

"John... Oh my _gosh_, what's wrong with him? Is he conscious?" John whipped his neck around, animal-eyed. Thankfully, it was Sally Donavan.

"Oh, Sally. No, he's not. He's badly hurt... I can't get him to respond. He should have woken up by now!" John lay Sherlock's head carefully on the ground with shaking hands, where it lolled. A trickle of blood was trailing out of Sherlock's right ear.

"Oh that's bad..." John moaned. "Oh Jesus." He placed a finger on Sherlock's clammy skin. His pulse was mad.

Donavan gasped. The bleeding, agonising affliction looked appalling. John was glad that she was here, though, and that she cared. Which she never used to. Licking her dry lips nervously, she reached her hand for her pocket and produced a phone.

"I'm calling an ambulance. And grabbing some ice. I'll be back as soon as I can." She called as she ran down the isle, footsteps echoing, already putting her phone to her ear.

Gradually, the isle became less of an overpoweringly loud cacophony of madness; only the ongoing, two-a-side scuffle could be heard. And even that was being concluded.

Greg and Anderson may not have been as strong as the Serbians, but their intensely felt passion had been enough to overcome them. John listened to the satisfying click of handcuffs, one after another. Bojan and Sunglasses rolled around, fighting like bulls.

John suddenly flinched.

"Where's the other one... There was _another_!" John cried, standing, leaping towards Anderson wildly... seconds too late.

The Serbian jumped into Johns line of vision- the man John hadn't even bothered to take into account- and dived onto Lestrade's back, catching the man unawares. They crashed into the wall.

"Shh, John, for goodness sakes... Shhh..." Sherlock mumbled almost incoherently. Jon's head snapped to him, then to Lestrade. Utterly overwhelmed.

Greg and the third Serbian rolled on the floor, locked in a desperate battle of brute strength. But Sherlock hadn't beaten him before, and neither would Greg. He ended up on the wrong end of a straddle, disorientated and overpowered, a ruthless bear snarling down at him. Spit frothed from his lips. He licked them, disturbingly like a reptile. Fist clenching Greg's neck. Crushing. The beast aimed back for the killer punch...

... And then his stomach exploded...

... _Exploded_ in a spurt of red.

Or, that was how it looked to Anderson and newly arrived Donavan, who both stood stunned. In the heart-clenching reality, John had fired a bullet straight at the mans chest.

Silence followed. The Serbian's eyes froze for a fraction of a second, rimmed with alarm. Muscles jolting spastically, but body rooted as if paralysed, he looked down at the red liquid that was fast oozing from his side. The repugnant bodily juice soaked his clothes; it was soon spluttering from his agape, ape-like mouth. It was harrowingly gruesome how long he clung on, bewildered, lifeless, until he thankfully dropped like the corpse he'd soon be.

Lestrade whimpered as the mangled man flopped, face-first onto his own body. Wrenching with a force, he rolled the bloodied chassis away from him as if death by bullet were catchable. Not an ounce of sympathy was given. He instead stumbled to where Sherlock lay.

Lestrade crawled to where Sherlock's body was sprawled. Wheezing, he just flopped and lay next to him.

"This approach ... looks pretty good mate." He chocked out. He looked up at John, who resumed his place by this injurd friend. "Thank you John. He would've had me. Thank you." Greg closed his eyes. Anderson checked his pulse, which was fine, if erratic.

"Ambulance is coming soon. Looks like they'll have another couple of passengers. Will he..." Donavan faded off, looking at Sherlock as he lay in a comatose state.

John could only shiver as way of a reply. When the ambulance arrived and whisked Sherlock away, John calmly requested a shock blanket and a seat, if one could be so kind as to offer one.

* * *

_Days later..._

* * *

"Well, that was a bothersome disturbance. Painful, too. But, by all accounts, you were quite the soldier, John." Sherlock smiled winningly, managing to look dashing even with all the bandages wrapped tightly around his head.

"A bothersome disturbance? What would you say in the event of a global apocalypse, I wonder!" John leaned back into the chair by Sherlock's hospital bed, eyes wide in genuine disbelief.

"I'd say, 'darn, I will never get the chance to comprehend the validity of the Universal Gravitational constant as a true constant'. Or something to that effect." Sherlock smirked. "And... I'd regret not ever expressing my undying gratitude for you John. I'm not sure I'd have survived had it not been for you being such a- such a..."

"I think the term you're looking for is bad-ass motherfu..."

"John Hamish Watson, well I never!" Mrs Hudson recoiled in aloof horror as the words almost escaped John's lips.

"Ever so sorry about him, Mrs Hudson. Filthy tongued man. Do come on in. I've grapes in abundance, take a few, there by my bedside." Sherlock offered, kindly welcoming their landlady.

"That's alright, I'm quite pecking for chocolate anyway." She smiled as if she's spoken sin. "I'll sneak you some my love, you lay back and rest. And don't absorb any of that dirty language!"

Mrs Hudson tutted as she closed the door, whittering to herself. John grinned humorously.

"Good old Mrs Hudson. Truly mad, I swear to you John, but a sweet insane person nonetheless." Sherlock sighed. He reached for his glass of water and took a thirsty sip.

John laughed lightly. He blessed that woman. She'd come to visit Sherlock every day since he'd been in here, me kept them updated on the Serbians, who were locked up, unable to contact anyone. So Mary was safe. She'd never have to know about any of this mess. And Sherlock was being discharged tomorrow! But John had a none to pick with Sherlock...

"This isn't just going away, is it?" John spoke precariously.

Sherlock frowned. "Why shouldn't it? All's well that ends well, as they say. Although 'they' are usually far to optimistic for my liking."

"But Sherlock... We still need to talk. About who they were, how they knew you, your mystery woman (which, I'll have you know, baffles me beyond belief) and... And why, Sherlock, you seemed so terrified. So... haunted."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to give a harsh reply. He chocked on his words. Stuttered, his lips moving without audio.

"Sherlock, I'll only be there for you. No matter what it is that's..."

"John, I'm going to have to stop you there. You are beginning to wade into thick, filthy waters that I'd rather be left unriddled with. I can assure you that it doesn't matter now anyway. It's done. It's over." Sherlock finished with conviction. He looked his friend unflinchingly, square in the eye. John then saw a sudden weariness settle over him.

This was a conversation for another day.

* * *

Another day was soon upon them. Not the right day to talk about the memories that so pained the Comsulting Detective, but another day nonetheless.

Sherlock and John strode tall (Sherlock) and ambled gaily (John) into the bustling building where D.I Lestrade worked. Sherlock, practically skipping, hopped onto the elevator that would take them up to their friends office and span around to ask:

"Why did Lestrade call us here again? Excuse my ignorance, but my mind does have a tendency to wander."

John frowned, his deep-set crease lines getting more severe with every passing day. 2 days had passed, to be exact, since Sherlock had come back to Bakers Street and life had been sweet and easy again. But now this.

"He didn't want to say. He sounded serious though- said it was bad." John said.

"Oh." Sherlock hopped off the escalator as they arrived, falling into pace with the wandering workers in their suits, which weren't a pinch on his.

"I should probably stop bounding about the place like a child, then." He frowned.

"Heh... Yes, you probably should.

* * *

Greg didn't smile, or even look a little relieved to see his friend so well recuperated. As soon as the men walked in, he took a deep, shaky breath.

"Glad to see you're well, Sherlock. I was worried for you, mate, for a second or two. 'Till I remembered who you were, of course!" The D.I's smile was curiously fleeting.

"You too have much improved. Again, I can't thank you enough for responding to quickly and brilliantly to my S.O.S." Sherlock looked awkward, his eyes darting about the office. His words seemed unwilling to meet the air, but when they did, they were heart-felt. "You didn't let is down, and I thank you for that."

Greg smiled sadly. John was surprised to see tears brimming his eyes.

"Guys..." His voice broke. Shakily, he regained his composure. "I hate to have to show you this. I really do... John, you especially." He bowed his head, unable to face what he had to say. What Johnwould have to see. He'd be _heart-broken._ Gradually, he lifted a DVD from under his desk, and practically burned it with his eyes.

John felt his heart race in his chest. He was rendered speechless. Sherlock stepped forward brazenly.

"Show us." He instructed.

Heart-wrenchingly haltingly, Greg walked over to his laptop and placed the DVD in. He fiddled with the mouse for a second, speaking as he did so.

"We were sent this from an unknown location. It... It gets pretty bad. But you have to see it." Greg paused, becoming deadly serious. "You have to know, John, that we are doing everything we possibly can. Us, the police... Everyone. Everything. I swear. But it's difficult."

"Just play the video." Sherlock commanded softly. He turned to John, eyes kindled intensely. "Would you like to leave? I can tell you..."

John shook his head. Watched the laptop screen. When he checked with him, Sherlock gave Lestrade a quick nod.

Lestrade pressed play.

Greg watched their reactions carefully, his gut being wrenched inside of his emotionally mangled body. He watched as John froze. He'd been expecting that. What he'd not expected was for Sherlock's face to go equally as ashen, and for him to recoil in horror.

Mostly, Greg was dismayed and alarmed to see the tears suddenly race down Sherlock's ghost-white cheek.


	6. Impulses

**A**/**N**- Hello! Sorry for the wait, but revision has been time consuming. But as long as I still enjoy writing this thingy, I'll still try and find time for it. Thank you anyone who is still interested (followers and favouriters and reviewers, thanks a bunch xx)

:-)

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**Chapter 6:**

**Impulses**

John couldn't sleep. For hours and hours, he'd desperately tried. Yet, the days harrowing events plagued his mind, tormenting him relentlessly as he dug his head tighter and tighter into his rough, lead pillow.

For the dozenth time, John grunted and sat up, punching the pillow to extract some sort of comfort from the damn thing. He knew it was no use. He'd never sleep. How could he sleep, when Mary was... was...

Sweltering tears brimmed in his eyes once again, burning. He shook his head and cleared his throat gruffly. Then his eyes shut tight against his will, and the days events re-played in his mind for the dozenth time...

* * *

John, once again, was looking from Greg to Sherlock. From quietly terrified eyes to strong, assured ones.

"Show us." Sherlock had said. John, with his eyes, subtly thanked his friend for being able to say the words that he himself couldn't. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow as if to say: _Greg can be a dramatic fool. Calm yourself, John, really. You're making me look bad. _

John shifted on his feet, as was his nervous habit. Sherlock nodded confidently. Greg pressed play.

The laptop revealed a dark, godforsaken room in which two figures sat, concealed in shadow. The bad quality gave the impression of a claustrophobic room buzzing with millions of black and white flies, which seemed to warp the image maddeningly. The camera work was shoddy. It jilted and laboriously zoomed into view, slowly coming to focus on the lowered faces... John instantly jolted in alarm. Some meagre light in the room caught on a shower of familiar blond hair...

"Greg, that looks like..." John's voice faltered. For a second, it was as if someone had reached into his chest and rummaged around with his delicate insides.

Greg's face was grave as he nodded. "Keep watching John."

Mary. _Mary_! In that room! And someone else... John couldn't see. He couldn't say, in that moment, that he really cared. His vision had zoomed in on his wife- his beautiful, brave, steel-faced wife. She was staring up at the camera, her eyes locked solidly. Her hands were tied behind her back, and she looked too tired and defeated to even struggle. She couldn't even protect her baby with her hands.

"_John? It's alright John, I'm alright. They've not hurt me, I promise! Bloody insulted my ego, but..._" A gruff, grunting voice from behind the camera somewhere made Mary shut her lips tight, almost guiltily. John fumed. How dare someone control and threaten his wife!

"Greg, where was this sent from, where are they!" John screamed. His fists were clenched so tight they'd gone numb.

"The video was e-mailed, this disc is burned... couldn't trace where from. John, I can assure you, everyone, every official is on the case..." John lunged forward and punched the table. Hard. Greg blinked violently as pens shuddered and flew off his desk, their clattering piercing the thickly awkward air.

John yelled: "Well then _Where. Is. Mary_?_"_

"HUSH John!" Sherlock commanded. He yelled so roughly that his hair quivered. John and Greg turned, blinking in surprise.

Sherlock was looking shaken, like his head wound had suddenly opened up again. His eyes, wider than they'd ever been, were glaring, hawk-like, at the laptop screen. He raised a hand to order silence.

Mary took a weary look around her and inhaled shakily. The other woman in the room, even more concealed in darkness due to her dark, brown hair and the way her head was hung low. Slowly, she lifted it. Gave Mary a reassuring look, giving her the strength to talk.

"Isn't that... Irene Adler?" John uttered. Greg looked questioningly from him to Sherlock, who was now visibly shaking. In fear? Or fury?

"_They say you and Sherlock need to come to them, John. They want the both of you... They won't tell me why.._." Mary's voice began to crack, and she shook her head vigorously. "_They say you know where to go... I..."_

The brunette... Irene... spoke for her now. "_I think you can guess at what they threaten to do unless you come..._" Irene looked shamefully down at her bound arms. At Mary and her stomach. She looked back up at the camera. Her expression was suddenly rock steady. "_Me and our babies really need..._" She wept now, tears streaming. "_Implore your assistance... I really can't try, but you..."_ She broke down and wept. Mary made soft shushing noises, craning her body as far as her bounds would allow to comfort the woman, who's body had erupted into sobs.

This made Sherlock frown. That frown was what stuck with John. Usually, John could place what was going on- roughly- in Sherlock's head by his almost unreadable expressions. But this one was so mixed.

"Is this your only copy?" Sherlock asked, eyes piercing, his voice coming out like shattered glass.

"No, but..." Greg couldn't finish, for Sherlock lunged to eject the disc and pocket it.

"Mate..." Greg began, but Sherlock wasn't listening.

Quickly swiping away and intruding tear, Sherlock had span on his heel and strode quickly away from the room, leaving two baffled men wondering where to stare.

* * *

Back in his bedroom, where he struggled to sleep, John rubbed his eyes forcefully, as if willing away the memories. He groaned as he sat up. Of corse, how could he sleep?

After watching the video, and stuttering in silence after Sherlock's speedy exit, Greg and John had had a very long chat. John couldn't recall most of it. There were police in the discourse at some point, floating before his eyes, asking about his wife: where she'd said she was; who she'd said she was with; who the woman apparently affiliated with Sherlock was. John had answered robotically as best he could. She'd said she was in Ibiza. She'd said she'd been with friends on girls holiday. And the last question... It was complicated.

Greg, too, had questions, but he held them back. After running John through what would happen next, and how there was nothing John could do but wait, he'd ordered that John go back to 22 B and sleep.

"Don't worry," he'd said. "And tell Sherlock not to worry. God knows who that woman was, and how the hell she managed to make Sherlock care about her so much, but... Tell him we're doing everything we can. I know he'll be 'on the case', but this one... It'll stress him out. Too personal. Just, let him know he can trust me." Greg had said. "Take care of yourself John."

John remembered how Sherlock had retreated inside himself, absorbed in his laptop, pen and paper in hand, for the rest of the day. Nothing would get through to him. John had ended up battling in a shouting match with himself. Funnily enough, he'd lost both sides.

John sleepily eyed his alarm-clock. 2 am. Urgh. He'd better go see if Sherlock had gone to sleep yet. If not, he'd physically drag him to bed by his frizzy, raven mop.

Clinging weakly to the walls, still half-paralysed with sleep, John stumbled down the stairs. He narrowed his eyes as if it would give him the ability to see in the dark.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, if you're still down here..." John swung into the lounge. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, confused.

Sherlock had abandoned his desk, laptop wide open, pen laid where the man had thrown it down in his obvious haste to leave. abandoned in the dead of night, with not even the eerie tune of the violins to humanise it, the apartment held the airs of a grave-yard. And Sherlock was well and truly gone. An educated guess told John that his friend hadn't retired to bed. He frowned and sighed, hissing up to the ceiling.

"Damn you, Sherlock, damn you to hell!" John cursed, striding over to the abandoned desk. He could be anywhere on this earth. In Sherlock's case, the place he'd slunk off to needn't even _be_ on the earth.

Lips pursed in annoyance, John began to scan Sherlock's desk, flicking about bits and bobs, detached. He flicked the laptop to life. A still of Mary and Irene in that dark, shrouded room appeared on screen. John shuddered.

It it was near the end. Mary was stretched across, trying to comfort Irene, who had broken down, doubled over in her confined seat. The closeness- familiarity- between the two women puzzled John, but his mind was too overloaded to think. Instead of thinking, he rewound the DVD to the point that the bar below told him Sherlock had watched from. He pressed play, narrowing his eyes to squint at the brith screen that intruded the dark.

"_Me and our babies really need..._" John watched as Irene began to weep. "_Implore your assistance... I really can't try, but you..._" Strange. Second time round, John could see why this sentence had affected Sherlock.

Two things now sprung to the doctors mind; the two things that had obviously shocked the consulting detective immediately.

Observation One: "Me and our babies". Disregarding the horrible grammar... that meant that Irene was pregnant too? John was aghast. Sherlock's relationship with the woman had been an odd one, but he'd cared for her for the little time he'd spent with her all those years ago. Now, she had obviously settled down and become pregnant; it must have been like a knife into Sherlock's heart. And the fact that she and her baby were in danger must've near killed him. So that explained Sherlock's reaction somewhat.

Observation Two: the entire sentence was just... Weird.

John watched Irene speak again. He was becoming more and more confused. Letting out a frustrated breath, John cast his eyes down to the paper that was sat on the desk. It just baffled him more. The consulting detectives whipping handwriting had scrawled out Irene Alder's words, emboldening some letters. The first letter of every other word.

** M**e and **O**ur babies **R**eally need **I**mplore your **A**ssistance I **R**eally can't **T**ry but **Y**ou

Seconds of frowning at Sherlock's scrawled words, with seemingly random letters emboldened, began to make John feel dizzy. Letters began to float of of the crisp, white page as Johns tired vision blurred... And the bold letters suddenly came together.

**MORIARTY.**

Taking a sharp intake of breath, John stumbled back. James Moriarty. That insane, slithering psychopath, who could warp his way into both John and Sherlock's minds like a serpent. Sherlock had _died_ for him. Well, _fake_ died. Fake died in order to rid the world of his evil presence and twisted mind. He couldn't be back, could he? And he couldn't be holding Irene Adler and his wife captive, could he?

John opened up the laptop history. Recently deleted. Of course. Sherlock wasn't an idiot.

But neither was John.

John knew enough about his friend to know that making this discovery would have sent Sherlock reeling. He'd have contemplated telling John, then disregarded the idea almost immediately. He'd also disregard putting anyone else in danger by confiding in them. He'd have left John just enough information to go on, informing him of Moriarty's return. Then, he'd have done the head-strong thing; checked times at the airport and gone to where he knew Moriarty wanted him to go. And he'd have bloody well hopped on that plane, completely disregarding his own sanity... And his own life.

If John knew Sherlock, he was on a plane to who-knows-where. Straight into the palms of Moriarty's hands.

Straight into the snakes nest.

* * *

Sherlock gazed out of the airplane window, looking through the stringy, wisps of cloud that he passed, rather than at them. So lost in thought was Sherlock that the soft buzz of the plane and the hushed chatter didn't bother him. It passed through his ears, just as the clouds passed over his gaze.

Sherlock was aware of a strange feeling suddenly overcoming his senses. Something he struggled to put his finger on for a second. But it soon came to him. Loneliness. He was feeling _lonely_.

Sherlock almost laughed with the silliness, the pure childishness of his emotions. What was loneliness but a state of mind anyway? Not being physically alone, but the _perception_ of being alone and isolated is what makes one feel insecure and under-confident. He should knock it out of his head. The way he saw it, if you understood the irrationalities of emotions, then you were in a position of power to be able to control them.

Sherlock tried to control his emotions. He tried to shrug of the loneliness. In his desperation, he even attempted to strike up a casual conversation with the shy woman next to him. She had been recently betrayed by her husband and had fled the country quickly in a bid to get revenge, maybe shock him into guilt. She hadn't said this directly, but Sherlock assumed that was the case after scanning his eye about her person.

He and the petite woman passed a few kind words to and fro about current affairs and the ever-altering British weather. She spoke shyly, uncertainly about how global-warming made her worry for the future. Then, Sherlock, becoming tired, politely extracted himself from the conversation by yawning and stretching his limbs.

"I think I'll doze off if you don't mind." He said, smiling. Then, his smile became sympathetic "Do try not to panic yourself about what that good-for-nothing husband is up to currently. Frankly, he's not worth the dirt on your shoe." Sherlock offered. He felt the woman could use a confidence-boost.

The woman stuttered, her pixi-thin lips fluttering apart, searching for words. But, as Sherlock led back, she simply turned away, aghast. And slightly comforted.

Waste of time for Sherlock, though. He still felt that odd emptiness sitting on his chest heavily, nowhere near shifting. Loneliness. It was uncomfortable. Maybe this was the very thing Mycroft was always warning Sherlock about.

"Caring is never an advantage, Sherlock." He'd say in that low, all-knowing tone of his.

_No_, Sherlock thought. _It defiantly isn't._

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	7. Breaking Away

**A**/**N**: Very sorry I'm being so rubbish with this story! Exams are coming up soon, so my mind's occupied.

I realise this chapter is boring, my pace is annoyingly slow, but my head isn't in it so I don't know what the characters are doing. I thought it would be nice if anyone reading this (if anyone is!) had any idea's for what they'd like to happen! Review and let me know. I know I won't let down for action, but what...

Thanks to anyone who is reading this :)

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**Chapter 6: **

**Breaking Away**

_Sherlock peeled his eyes open and welcomed the warm light that instantly filled his vision. He smiled. An odd thing to do after waking up, but the need to smile just suddenly hit him. The need, also, to twist his body about in the luxurious bed, crumpling the crisp white sheets, and nestle his face into the disheveled brunette hair that fanned out on the pillow next to him. _

_Lazily- contently- a sigh of pleasure passed Irene Adler's lips. She slowly turned around to face him, stretching out her arm sky-high, as if relishing in the delight of the moment. _

_Her eyes, large and magnetic, gazed into Sherlocks. "I thought you'd be gone." She said with a yawn in her voice and quiet satisfaction in her eyes. _

_Sherlock tilted his head further into the pillow. "So did I." He mused._

_ Gradually, he brought his lips to Irene's..._

* * *

"Sir? Sir? Excuse me, Sherlock, was it?"

An irritating newt seemed to be intruding Sherlock's dream. His memory. One of very few that brought him great pleasure- if a little subtle discomfort and guilt- to relive. But there was some sort of animal, thingy, on his shoulder. Shaking it relentlessly.

"Sherlock?" The girl sat in the seat next to him, who's name Sherlock had deemed too unimportant to retain, shook his shoulder awkwardly. "Sir, I just thought I'd wake you. The plane has landed.

With these words, so rushed in the sound of bustling bags and scrunching sweet-wrappers, punching Sherlocks dreary senses. He sighed. That journey had been far too swift.

Blinking away the fatigue, Sherlock thanked the woman, who nodded shyly in return before taking her luggage and slinking away with the other passengers.

As the hoards loaded themselves off, Sherlock quietly sat back in his chair. There was no use in hurrying with that maddening crowd. Anyway, after the events of the past few days, he couldn't say he felt as comfortable in tight crowds as he used to. He reached and touched his head, remembering the horrible spinning sensation that had sent him to the ground to be trampled underfoot. Left powerless. No. He'd wait for the crowds to lessen.

The last couple of stragglers began to make there way off of the plane, and Sherlock began to stand.

"Is there a Sherlock Holmes on this plane?" Someone called.

Sherlock looked over to the pilot's cabin from where a uniformed man had emerged, asking for him. Oh no. Not this again. What was it this time? Sherlock was beginning to really despise airplanes.

"Priority message from England to a Mr. Sherlock Holmes." The young man became irritated. "This is quite unorthodox so if a Mr. Holmes is here, could he please speak up?"

Sherlock sighed. "John. You fiend." He mumbled, before sinking his hands in the depths of his pockets and stalking off the plane without a word.

As his skin hit the humid wall of hot air, Sherlock found himself caught off guard. He cleared his throat and pulled off his jacket, feeling uncomfortable in just a shirt. Sooner than expected, the sharp material began to feel like an unwanted hide, quenching any hope of air, confining the beading sweat already forming on his back.

Already, his heart pined for London. The streets there felt so familiar that if he stood on Carnaby Street, he could close his eyes and map out the way to Trafalgar Square. The only reason he wasn't turning back from this foreign land was because his heart pined for someone else more.

* * *

"Well?" John pestered, hands leaning firmly on the cluttered desk.

Greg shook his head gravely. "Nothing. Again."

John sighed irritably, raking his hands through his thinning hair. "You assured me that this was defiantly the right plane." John said, narrowing his eyes at Lestrade.

He defensively raised his eyebrows. "It was. CCTV proves it."

"So he's ignoring us now. Well that's just flipping great, isn't it! First I find out Mary's in Serbia, which means Irene bloody Adler is in Serbia, then Moriarty is revealed as being in Serbia... now Sherlock's in God damn flipping bloody Serbia! Everyone's going to Serbia! Will there be a surprise party for me there? Is that what this is all about?"

Greg could see that John was becoming erratic. He paced about the office, muttering in fury at the walls.

"John, calm down. Look, let's get some perspective on this. Where did it all start?" Greg spoke slowly. Thinking logically would calm John down, Greg knew it. In some ways, John's brain was wired similarly to the consulting detective's.

John took a deep breath. "Okay. It started with your little case. That was linked- I guess- because it was apparently _Irene_ who killed the man. I've figured out that much. Took me a while. Took Sherlock minutes." John pondered. "Sherlock said it was her father that she shot."

"Okay. So this - this _woman_- kills her dad. You get an unrelated call and all that crap in the airport happens. Which, we now know, is to do with Moriarty wanting Sherlock." Greg's face was turning red from all the thinking. A laborious job.

"I don't get how Irene ended up with Mary though! I mean, they didn't know each other." John sighed, exasperated.

In this moment, he couldn't think straight. It had only taken a couple of days for his entire world to come crashing down around him, as if the whole time it had been made of glass rather than built as the sturdy construction that lives were supposed to be. It had been his responsibility to build this stable life for him and his family. So how had it come to this? His wife and child in mortal peril, and his friend risking his own life to save them. Disaster.

"Maybe they're old palls." Greg shrugged.

John paused. Then took an intake of breath. "Well... I guess it wouldn't be all that surprising." John bowed his head. "Sometimes I feel like I barely know her at all."

John retreated within himself for a second. Greg found the moment very awkward.

"Hey, I know what'll cheer you up!" Greg said in a half-sarcastic cheery tone.

"Hmm...?"

"A holiday in Serbia! I've heard it's absolutely beautiful this time of year."

John stumbled into the wooden chair in the room, almost missing in his haste to relieve his aching legs. He put his head in his hands and let it loll. He mumbled a 'yes'. He knew he'd they'd have to.

Greg slapped his hand on his friends shoulder. "You'll be fine, mate. We'll save them. All of them."

"I hope we can. Last time we were up against that snake Moriarty, the worst happened. I can't imagine what's going to happen this time."

* * *

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